


Ghost Rule

by sadomochi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Breathplay, Ghost Sex, M/M, Masochism, Service Top, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadomochi/pseuds/sadomochi
Summary: Ever since the partial destruction of Carrion Manor by a house fire some decades prior the place was rumoured to be haunted. The poor souls who had perished in the flames were said to seek revenge upon their cruel old Master.His heir, Governor Wilhuff Tarkin, who had inherited the house thought these whisperings to be nothing more than foolish tales for boys and old spinsters to shiver about as they made their way quickly past the manor's iron gates.
Relationships: Wilhuff Tarkin/Darth Vader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	Ghost Rule

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful [soulshrapnel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulshrapnel/pseuds/soulshrapnel) and [carrionspiked](https://carrionspiked.tumblr.com/) who gave me so many ideas for this. Look what you made me do, I hope you like it a little. Don't expect any form of historical accuracy from this, my credentials are as follows: I read the Picture of Dorian Grey a few times.

Ever since the partial destruction of Carrion Manor by a house fire some decades prior the place was rumoured to be haunted. The poor souls who had perished in the flames were said to seek revenge upon their cruel old Master. 

His heir, Governor Wilhuff Tarkin, who had inherited the house thought these whisperings to be nothing more than foolish tales for boys and old spinsters to shiver about as they made their way quickly past the manor's iron gates. 

With Carrion Manor came a servant by the name of Hux. A scrawny looking fella scarcely more than a boy with flaming red hair and emerald eyes to match. Hux was the eldest son of the former head butler and had taken over his father's duties after the man's death in the fateful fire and the following rebuilding of the house. 

Upon Governor Tarkin's arrival at the Carrion, he was welcomed by blushing and fidgeting Hux who had prepared the residence to Tarkin's full satisfaction. Bouquets of flowers were arranged to perfection in the spacious entrance hall as well as the sitting room. 

Tarkin dismissed the over-eager boy to inspect the rest of the rooms by himself. As he wandered through the halls Tarkin pondered the stories he had heard about Carrion Manor. He silently scoffed to himself. One of the most popular of the tale's versions among the townspeople was that the previous and original owner of the residence, Wilhuff Tarkin's grandfather, had brought a curse upon the house as well as the entirety of the Tarkin family and had paid for his sins with the ashes of his family members, staff and belongings as the Carrion had burned down. 

They had their reasons, Tarkin supposed, for making up such crude rumours. For generations, the Tarkin family had been know and feared for their ruthlessness in business and private affairs alike, hated by many but ever more successful for it. The tragedy of Carrion Manor to many had been a bigger source of gratification than it was civil to admit. 

Wilhuff Tarkin prided himself on contributing in no small part to the rebuilding of the Carrion on its scorched foundation. Through his own hard work he had brought his family closer to its former glory. 

After having Hux run him his evening bath, declining the boy's offer to help him with his nightly routine, Tarkin settled into the large four-poster in the main bedroom. The plush sheets were cold to the touch and smelled of lavender – Hux had apparently paid attention, and the fact that nobody had slept in this room for a considerable amount of time was obvious. Worn out from his journey, Tarkin soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.  
_____

He was startled awake by the sudden, tinny sound of some clock out in the hall striking twelve. Fragments of Tarkin's voice were carried with his initial few gasps, quieting down as his tired eyes surveyed the unfamiliar room. He breathed in unison with the echoing tolls of the bell until they ceased, sinking back into his pillow when the night went quiet once more. Closing his lids, the darkness seemed to slip between Tarkin's lashes a fraction too quickly, as if his vision was being obscured just before his eyes were fully shut. But sleep took him back into its embrace too fiercely before he could react. 

_____

Hux woke him in the morning with gentle hands and tea already prepared at Tarkin's bedside. Although it went against his usual principles the Governor let himself be dressed by the boy, raising his eyebrows a few times at the way Hux touched him like he was made of glass or marble, fragile and precious and easy to break.

Sufficiently armoured in layers of shirts and waistcoat, Tarkin set to work until the late afternoon, letting Hux prepare small refreshments throughout followed by a light and early dinner once Tarkin was done. The work was dull and repetitive, tiring Tarkin out so that he sought to turn in for the evening soon. Hux pouted as he was once again denied when he offered to bathe his Master and hurried away after Tarkin dismissed him for the night. 

_____

Tarkin woke abruptly, snapped into wakefulness as it appeared, by his own gasped breath. His body would not not obey him in that fist moment of lucidity, tensing and fisting its pale hands into the pillow near his head. Lashes fluttered apart and Tarkin saw it.

At the foot of the bed stood a tall shadow, darker than the night itself, a featureless void that drew Tarkin into itself. The figure drew closer without moving until its hideous visage loomed close over Tarkin's face. An iron mask like a skull or a creature from deep within the blackness of the ocean flickered before his eyes. Accompanying the thing was a horrid sound, the rasping breaths of a dying man distorted in a mechanical kind of way, coming so regularly as to have an almost hypnotic effect.

Tarkin could not move, could not force the scream that was ready in his throat to break free, held down pressed into the sheets by some inexplicable force. It crawled over his straining body like burning ice, driving his flat, choking breaths higher and higher until at last he fainted right back into unconsciousness. 

Tarkin returned just as quick as he had gone under, the scream that had lodged itself in his chest at the creature's sight now tearing out of him all the more vigorously. 

The bedroom door was flung open by Hux, candlestick in hand, hair mussed and in his own sleeping attire, the boy hurried to Tarkin's bedside. 

“Sir, I heard you screaming. What is wrong?”

Trying to speak before his heart rate could settle into an acceptable pace, Tarkin's words came out stuttered. “There... it was...” Tarkin pointed with a trembling finger to the spot were the thing had stood, vacant now just as it had been when Tarkin had gone to bed that evening.

Hux glanced at the spot, then back at his Master, his arms coming to smooth down Tarkin's rumpled nightgown over his shoulders, soothing. 

“There's nothing there, sir. It must have been a nightmare. Do you want me to fetch you some milk with honey?”

Wild eyes stared at Hux before Tarkin answered. “Yes, yes just a nightmare...” he paused. “Don't bother with it. Leave me, go back to sleep, boy.” 

“Yes, sir,” Hux muttered and padded out the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

Tarkin ran his clammy hands over his face, pressing in between his bones to map out the expression of horror he wore. Not since he had been a boy had he felt like this, afraid in the most primal sort of way, of the unknown and unexplained. When as a child his fear had been born purely of instinct, a natural response to asses danger, now the very thing that scared Tarkin was that no rational thought, even learned through fear, could combat this. 

This, Tarkin did not want to admit to himself, was the fact that what happened had been entirely real and unlike anything he had experienced or dealt with in his life. Foolish as it felt there was no doubt about it, Carrion Manor was haunted. 

_____

From that night on, Tarkin's time in Carrion Manor was spent in a state akin to Purgatory. Evening after evening he would dread falling asleep, for the ghost visited his bedside often, though never following a set pattern. 

The encounters were always brief, Tarkin slipping into consciousness for short amounts of time, sometimes minutes, then mere seconds, to see the shadow looming at the bed's foot, just observing, breathing its disturbing breaths. 

There came a point where Tarkin found it difficult to tell dream from reality when it happened. The creature would always hold him in its grasp, unable to speak or move more than a few inches so that Tarkin had no choice but surrender himself to it, accepting its presence and slipping back under eventually. 

For almost a month this went on, during which Hux was ordered to bring multiple crucifixes into the rooms of the Carrion in hopes of warding off the creature. An attempt that proved futile. The thing did not show any reaction whatsoever, proving to Tarkin that either the wraith was simply not a spawn of hell or that the crosses and trinkets had been useless all along. 

Meekly, Hux had suggested asking for the help of a psychic or ghost hunter but Tarkin thought it beneath himself to seek advice from a bunch of superstitious occultists. Merely because Carrion Manor happened to be haunted it did not mean every other contrived ghost story was also based in reality. In addition, despite everything, the ghost had never attempted to harm Tarkin actively. While the townspeople had been correct in assuming that the Carrion was haunted, the wraith was not nearly as aggressive as the stories made it out to be. 

Still, Tarkin's nightly visitor was a cause for concern. Sometimes, as he sat at work in the study there would be a darkness creeping by the corner of his eye, or the sensation of raspy, heaving breaths slithering down his neck. He'd turn his head to look for it and find the empty room behind him. The ghost had never appeared to him during the daytime so the fact that Tarkin's mind was starting to play tricks on him, unable to banish the creature from his thoughts was troubling. Tarkin was beginning to lose sleep as well. Falling asleep became harder and harder as time went on, the anticipation of wether the shadow would finally strike or just lurk as it always did increasing each night. 

Most embarrassingly, his arguably few social contacts – Tarkin preferred to keep those at a minimum, started noticing a change not so much in Tarkin's behaviour but rather his looks. As his insufferable rival Director Krennic loved to point out during their weekly meetings at the club, the dark circles around Tarkin's eyes looked horrendous. 

_____

Tarkin was getting ready for bed. Seated on a bench in the Carrion's luxurious bathroom he stretched out one of his long legs for Hux to towel dry. Over the last few weeks Tarkin had taken to accepting most of Hux's offers to bathe and dress him. The boy was so eager, Tarkin saw no harm in indulging him and Hux glowed under each word of praise. His presence in the house was oddly soothing, at least ensuring that Tarkin was never alone with the wraith watching him. The amount of times he had called for Hux during the night, letting the boy calm him down, he'd rather not think about. Tarkin had of course asked Hux wether he had ever encountered the ghost but Hux had not, looking almost sorry about it, unable to relate to or help his Master. 

They were in the bedroom now, Tarkin sitting on the edge of the bed with Hux before him. “How have you been sleeping recently, sir?” Hux asked carefully while slipping a silky nightgown over Tarkin's head.

Tarkin considered the question. Not worse than usual, he supposed. The creature appeared often, staring Tarkin down with its void-like mask, not letting him speak and vanished. Tarkin sighed. 

“Fine, my boy, thank you,” Tarkin said, observing Hux as he knelt down to slide Tarkin's slippers off his slender feet. “Don't worry about it.” Not that Hux could do anything. 

“Of course, sir,” Hux muttered. “Sorry, sir.” He said very quietly, maybe not even realizing he had done so, Tarkin thought. “I am still here to serve you, sir, should there be any way I can help you please let me know, it will be my pleasure to-”

“Calm yourself, Hux,” Tarkin cut him off. “There is no use in fussing about it. Now finish up and you are dismissed for the night.” 

Hux nodded and hastily went to close the curtains and snuff out the lights, closing the door behind him with a soft click. 

_____

That night Tarkin woke slowly, body twisting within the blankets in unease before pale eyes fluttered open with a soft groan. He was startled out of his half-awake state once again by the striking of the clock down the hall, marking midnight. 

In the middle of the room stood the wraith. Cloaked in its darkness and heaving its breaths. It moved towards the bed, something it did rarely as it seemed to prefer to just stand there, lurking. 

Tarkin felt his heart hammering in his chest as the ghost drew closer. His jaw was clamped shut by its invisible iron grip and Tarkin thought it a mercy, his shameful screams and whimpers unable to escape. 

But as the shadow came to a halt at his bedside it leaned its great body over Tarkin and something changed. The hold it had on Tarkin's body loosened, releasing him into his fear so that he scrabbled backwards until his back was pressed against the bed's carved headboard. 

He could make sounds suddenly and so he did, a breathless whine, before he tangled his fists in his blanket, uselessly shielding his body. Tarkin somehow, found it in him to speak then. The creature was allowing it this once so this was possibly his only chance to try and talk to it. 

His voice came out thin, so unlike Tarkin's usual tone. “What do you want from me?”

The breathing stopped for a moment, as if the ghost was preparing to speak. Its voice went straight into the marrow of Tarkin's bones, deep and rough and reverberating from the inside out. It sounded like it came from within Tarkin's head, like if he put his hands over his ears to block out the noise it would be futile. 

“I am watching out for you, Master, protecting.”

“Master? Wha-” 

“Do you not remember me, my Master?” The creature rumbled, lowering its head. 

Master? Tarkin tried to think through the haze of fear clouding his mind. If this ghost was one of the souls who had perished in the fire it likely belonged to one of his grandfather's servants. Had this wraith been wandering the halls of Carrion Manor for over a decade waiting for its Master's return? And was it now mistaking Tarkin for his grandfather or simply carrying over its duties to the rightful heir? If this was the case, Tarkin though, there might be a way to control this being. 

He swallowed, untangling himself from his protective nest of blankets and choose his words carefully. “Your old Master is no more, wraith. I am of his bloodline, my name is Governor Wilhuff Tarkin, rightful heir of Carrion Manor. There is no place in this house for you anymore, I command you to leave.”

“Master...” the ghost rasped, flickering in and out of existence for a moment. “It is my duty to serve the Master of this house for eternity. I cannot leave, I am bound to this place and must not break my contract.”

Tarkin raised his eyebrows. So his grandfather had apparently, unbeknownst to even his own family, been dealing with occult powers and had somehow bound one of his servant's souls in an eternal contract. And Tarkin usually prided himself on his extensive knowledge of his family's history. He felt like a fool.

“I have no need for your protection or service.” 

At the statement, the ghost buckled to its knees, tall form still towering over Tarkin on the bed. This creature of darkness was kneeling before him, hanging its masked head. 

“Please, Master. Let me. I have been waiting for so long. I need to serve you. Please.” 

A nervous giggle tried to claw itself up Tarkin's throat. The thing could not be serious. What would happen to it, he wondered, if he kept refusing? Would it somehow find a way to force itself under Tarkin's command, manipulating him? Or would it experience some otherworldly agony caused by the breaking of the contract? He felt almost bad for it then, a sick pleasure rising inside of him at having this dark beast at his service. 

Sitting up taller now, Tarkin decided to bestow mercy upon the cursed creature. “What is your name, wraith?” He asked. 

“Vader, my Master,” it answered, its heavy breaths filling the silence between them. 

“Vader,” Tarkin echoed. Vader raised his head at the utterance of his name, exuding satisfaction. “I shall allow you to service me tonight. Prove to me that you are loyal to your new Master. 

A strange, slick glow surrounded Vader now, the air around him rippling with energy. His way of showing excitement? Vader lowered his head again in a gesture of devotion. “Thank you, Master. I shall prove it to you. I am forever yours. What is it you desire, Master?” 

In his rush of power, Tarkin had not actually thought about that. Middle of the night as it was, his sleep-hungry mind made an unspeakable suggestion. It slipped off his lips before Tarkin knew it.

“Ravage me, Vader, put me back to sleep with it.”

Vader growled like the mechanical imitation of some beast. His dark silhouette changed, the shadows behind him billowed like a cape or the wings of a huge bat as he shifted onto the bed. His invisible tendrils pulled at Tarkin's limbs to lay him down on his back again, drawing a yelp from him. 

There was no weight at all to Vader and when Tarkin cautiously raised his hand to see if he could touch him his hand passed trough Vader just like that, a dark pool of liquid that offered no resistance. Tarkin stared in awe. 

“I am sorry, Master. You cannot feel me the way I can feel you. But I can make you feel good, Master.”

Vader seized Tarkin in his invisible bonds then, drawing them tight around his limbs and neck, vice-like and just on the edge of painful. 

For a split second Tarkin wondered if he had made a mistake. Maybe Vader was looking for revenge after all, had lied to him and just been given the perfect opportunity to strike. But no, if Vader had wanted to kill Tarkin surely he would have done so by now, could have done so many times before.

Tarkin growled and twisted against his restraints, determined not to give in to the primal spark of fear that still lurked in the back of his mind. Vader's grip tightened in response, pulsating around Tarkin's skin, digging into sensitive spots that made Tarkin recoil into submission in pain. 

Above Tarkin, Vader's mask floated closer, his airless breaths echoing in Tarkin's head even while he spoke. “I know what you like, Master. I can see it.” 

And then there was Vader's touch between his legs, finding his Master hard and ready. Tarkin gasped at the feeling, high and desperate. I felt so foreign, nothing like the hands of another, closer to tendrils of liquid flowing around him and adjusting pressure constantly. His head tossed from side to side on the pillow so Vader got a hold of Tarkin's jaw to make him stare into the blackness of his mask.

“You like to be hurt, Master.” Tarkin could not tell if it was a question, and he neither intended or was able to answer. All he did was moan at Vader who was intensifying his strokes on Tarkin's cock. Never had any of Tarkin's partners really understood his desire for pain so he had taken to repressing that unseemly part of himself. It didn't bother him too much, he preferred not being touched at all by most people anyways. 

But this creature was different of course. Vader could somehow see into his mind and feel what he craved, driven by a desire to serve so deep it made Tarkin shudder to think about it. 

“Yes, Vader.” he forced out, voice strained. “Give it to me.”

Vader complied immediately, conjuring up streaks of white-hot pain that seared themselves down Tarkin's back like claws of a giant beast. Tarkin screamed and arched off the bed, presenting his chest for Vader to lash out in the same way across his front. Panting in shock, Tarkin looked down expecting to find his nightgown a torn up mess stained with blood but there was nothing but pale, rumpled silk over pale skin. 

“Oh...” Eyes wide, Tarkin looked back up at Vader. His sleep-drunken imagination ran wild with what this meant. Vader had the ability to make him experience pain without actually hurting damaging him. He thought about a crushing weight on his chest, stealing his breath but his frail bones never threatening to crack, a knife's edge running over his skin, slicing but not drawing blood, never cutting too deep. 

“More,” Tarkin commanded. He was curious to see what Vader could do even without being given clear instructions. If he could pull straight from his mind Tarkin's wishes and desires. 

“Yes, Master.”

The ghostly touches between Tarkin's legs changed, letting up their teasing and firming up instead, working Tarkin closer to the edge. He gasped as suddenly there was the feeling of Vader's foreign touch invading his most intimate parts. Vader was inside him now, just like that with no need for preparation he was stimulation Tarkin's core, bolts of pleasure rippling from the inside out. 

Tarkin's wails were cut off suddenly when Vader clamped down a vice of power around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and restricting movement further. It made Tarkin go boneless and pliant, coupled with the torturous pumping and thrusting Vader was applying beneath the blankets he could only lay there fighting for air, hips twitching upwards in search of release. 

Pale hands twisted in white sheets, Tarkin could tell his consciousness was beginning to slip away. He felt like an animal pinned down ready for dissection beneath Vader, slight frame heaving and heart thudding frantically. Vader was manipulating his body from his very core, ripping ecstasy from it without mercy until Tarkin could do nothing but use the scarce amount of air Vader allowed into his lungs to scream his orgasm into the night as he writhed. 

In that moment, Vader released him, letting him break into the shudders and twitches that had been building up in Tarkin's aching limbs. He lay there, Vader's ghost floating above him, only half-conscious and groaning with relief. 

In his last moments of wakefulness, before sleep overcame him once more, Tarkin noticed the slightest brush of sensation against his opened lips, the taste of metal and ashes penetrating his senses as he feel asleep to the sound of Vader's breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> I put Hux in here for no other reason than I love him and he deserves to drool over Tarkin all day. Sue me I can do what I want.
> 
> Title from 'Ghost Rule' by DECO*27.


End file.
